


Jealous

by babyvixen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyvixen/pseuds/babyvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione gets an unexpected new friend who knows exactly how to make Ron jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealous

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to J.K. Rowling I am just having some fun. Students are repeating the school year after Voldemort's death. Also this is my first time on AO3. Can I write smut for teens and up? xD

_Fuck prefect duty._

She is crying, and she even wonders why, for god’s sake, she is _Hermione Granger_ , she survived the war with a bloodied tattoo of the word Mudblood on her arm, she helped destroy and herself destroyed seven horcruxes – she is hungry – she did not expect them to have a forever together, and she just knew they weren’t meant to be, she is the head girl, and he is just a _quidditch keeper_ , just the quidditch keeper, yes, there was absolutely no appeal in that–dimwit– and oh god she is so hungry, she can just sit down on the floor against the wall and sob her way into the next morning – with a bit of steak and some pie– and she does not believe she can be so messed up over a boy because who even in the world is attracted to _Ron Weasley_ of all people, with his fiery red hair, and his unearthly, beautiful, goofy grin, his awkward height and the ferocity with which he plays chess and fists the air when the crowd sings “Weasley’s our king”, as he manages to wink at her, one face amongst the hundred others and he _still_ finds her, that obnoxious, irritatingly hot quidditch keeper–ugh, she shouldn’t even be here, she needs coffee, sleep and twenty new fictional muggle books to read, also gummy bears. She wants gummy bears so bad it hurts.

As she finishes wiping her still leaking face with her hands because there are no fucking tissues when you need them, she notices a shadow lurking at the side. Her wand is out the very instant because it completely catches her off guard, and because she does not appreciate one of her really gorgeous batch mates looking over her smirking as she contemplates the meaning of her life.

“Bad day, Gryffindor princess?”

“Why are you here? Curfew’s started.”

_Where are your comebacks when you need them?_

“Well if I didn’t know that, I would be wondering what the hell I was even doing here anyway,” Astoria shrugs, stepping into the dim light of the curfew hours highlighting her chiselled face and a gleaming prefect badge on her uniform. No robes, just a white buttoned shirt and a black knee length skirt that rides a fairly inappropriate number of inches up her thigh as she supports herself with one leg against the opposite wall.

She takes a moment to lower her wand and give the 5’6” Slytherin a once-over, from her perfectly curled, dark, hair to her smooth, bare knee and feels a flicker of jealousy. Astoria is the kind of girl Ron and Harry ogle at discreetly during classes, but never dare to make a move on, and vehemently deny liking even at the common room’s Truth and Dares. And here, even when she is all at ease and –no makeup, she realizes with awe– more interested in the empty hallway rather than her, she feels as if she is trapped in an inevitable face-off.

“I forgot you were a prefect,” Hermione mumbles, still uncomfortable at someone having seen her cry in such a pathetic location and timing, _such a pathetic reason too, only she doesn’t have to know that_ , for a war heroine.

Her rival is terribly bored, she deduces.

Because in no other situation would Astoria Greengrass roll her eyes, start walking away and then turn back and say, “Come.”

She is too busy making her breathing not come out in involuntary gasps to counter Greengrass, and cannot think of any good reason as of why to refuse, or why she is making a big deal out of it anyway. So she doesn’t really hesitate.

The two girls walk side by side in silence. It is almost as if Greengrass knows. She scolds her stomach for growling so loud, half-heartedly, as they go down the staircase leading to the Hufflepuff basement, and the taller girl tickles the pear in the fruit bowl painting which laughs and squirms to reveal a doorway. Hermione pauses thinking as Astoria enters, just to take in a deep breath. The kitchens always smell so good. _This smell better replace the other soon when I take a whiff of Amortentia_ , the inner voice tries to brighten her up, and just like that, she is gloomy again.

The elves hurry to greet them forming a huge flurry of tiny, courteous motion, chorusing pleasure and servitude to them.

“Can you help us with some bacon and steak please?” Greengrass says to them after they have finished their hearty welcome. “We happened to miss dinner.” Hermione internally scowls at how she just seems to disregard asking her about her opinion on anything. She didn’t even get to say what she would be having. Also, she isn’t sure what she should be more wary about, how they both just casually, so she thinks, missed dinner, or the way she says ‘please’ to elves, _granted that’s what you’d do yourself_ but nobody else generally does.

She regards her with a new curiousity, something that doesn’t involve which perfume the girl uses, or the secret to her flawless, tempting skin. Or the pretty black flats she is wearing, or the shape of her ringlets on her straight back, god knows how seriously attractive a straight back can be.  
_And oh miss, nice shampoo._

Yeah, she really needs to meet Parvati and Lavender, it’s been a while. She is still kind of miffed about Lavender and her thing with “won-won” even if it was back in sixth year, but that girl seems to strike with vengeance when helping people out with girly stuff especially now that she had recovered from Greyback’s attack without really turning into a werewolf. The first thing she asked when she was conscious and told about the occurrences, was whether she needed to wax thrice a month from then. Lavender could really help her with a makeover, the need of which increased with every passing second she breathed next to this Slytherin vixen.

The vixen points to a table, the one out of the five that occupies the position of the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall, directly above the kitchens.

It’s awkward.

“Why did you miss dinner?” Hermione asks, cringing at how her voice sounds.

“The usual.”

She starts examining her nails like the Emma Woodhouse that she is.

It irritates Hermione more than she would like to admit. Nobody doesn’t want to talk to Hermione Granger. That applies to the Slytherins nowadays as well. Some have the gall to apologize for any former unpleasant exchanges, even ask questions, but all do reply briefly the questions she asks without hesitation; they know who she is, they know what she’s are capable of.

“I don’t know about you, but the usual for me is obeying the seemingly strict rules of following dinner timing and gathering in the Great Hall to feast in presence of the school’s companionship by nine.”

She doesn’t care about how hypocritical she sounds.

Greengrass looks up, elbows on the table, one hand cupping her chin and the other drawing invisible patterns on the tablecloth. There is a ghost of an emotionless smile on her lips.

“I don’t know about you, but I used to think dinner isn’t the same as sitting in an empty hallway and pouring your heart out to sympathetic walls.”

She should have cared about how hypocritical she sounded.

Maybe judging her silence, Greengrass continues in a lower voice. “Shut it, Granger. Stop pretending like you care about the rules at this point, even being you. Nobody said having companionship for dinner every night is a must for a brilliant record.”

She leans back lazily.

“The whole school’s I mean.”

She smiles completely now, _devilishly_ , and Hermione blushes at the innuendo she didn’t realize soon enough.

“It isn’t usual for you to attend dinner at the Great Hall.” She says slowly. It is not a question.

“Not when you get to do Zabini a few favours at the top of the Astronomy tower.”

It nearly makes her less hungry. She coughs, not subtly at all.

“You and Zabini,” she states. “On the better days of the week.” Greengrass smirks.

“Okay,” she smiles. It’s funny, actually. Between transfiguring eatable food out of waste, hunting down parts of a psycho’s soul, pretending to be the woman who locks your friends down in the cellar and tears your skin apart for dramatic writing, escaping on the back of a dragon, and many other things, she had forgotten the sheer thrill of sharing shag stories.

“On the best?”

“Draco,” Greengrass replies in a heartbeat, and Hermione laughs. She is aware of why so many girls choose to lust after the presumably so sophisticated, so aristocratic pale blond with a dark past, and honestly speaking, he has that appeal; but she knows it’s only on the outside. Malfoy had been one of the first of the crowd who had come begging for forgiveness. And it came to be easy for all of three of them– well maybe not Ron– to give him a second chance at friendship. Harry had his reasons to forgive him, as he told her in a heartbreaking narration later, but Hermione had always known that the guy wasn’t....like his father. She pities him, his situation, his family, but most of all, his cowardice. She knows that his resentment towards the Golden Trio was just a cover up for how badly he didn’t just want to share their fame, but also their adventures. Too bad he didn’t man up before Harry saved him.

“So is it going to be more than a hook up someday?” She inquires, easing into the conversation, which surprises her. She is waiting for her dinner in the kitchens, sympathising with a Greengrass for having a crush on Malfoy, how much more unlike herself could she get as the hours ticked by?

“Not really.”

“Wow, seriously?”

“He acts like a god, but we all know he is a marshmallow at heart. I just like the fact that he has really long fingers.”

Hermione squirms in her seat, uncomfortable again.

Greengrass seems to enjoy this.

“Or when he grabs my hair with one fist and puts the other to pin my hands down on the small of my back.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying to slow down her pulse.

“Or when his lips part on the side of my neck involuntarily as he says ‘ugh, fuck’ under his breath.”

_Not good, you vicious vixen._

“Or when he pulls out my hair clips and I feel his breath staggering at the sight.”

“Stop it.”

“He likes me. I like him. Just not the way lovers do.”

Hermione ponders over this statement. In fact, she is not sure what she is actually more turned on by, the words she choose to express this undoubtedly complicated relationship with Malfoy, the imagery the girl set in her brain of a naked Malfoy, the fact that the person sitting in front of her within a reachable distance had been fucked by both Zabini and Malfoy in the course of a week and probably planned on repeating the same, the strangeness of imagining Astoria Greengrass’s coiffure coming undone and Malfoy’s fingers okay definitely not thinking anymore you horny bitch, or the surrounding sounds of pots and pans clanging to remind them of the steak and bacon being prepared.

“That’s cool.”

Greengrass raises an eyebrow. “No it’s not.”

“Then?”

“It’s routine. Something only girls like me understand. There is nothing cool about it. Or bad.”

Their dinner arrives and they thank the ever-bowing elves. Her mood significantly improves.

“I wouldn’t know.”

She says it quietly and slightly fears that Greengrass didn’t hear.

“You shouldn’t.”

They eat silently, and Hermione believes the conversation is dropped, but Greengrass continues, between bites, “Routines have their ups and downs. Sometimes it gives you comfort. Affection, but no attachment. Regular, but still unfamiliar touches. After he walks away after taking what he wanted, the only thing you would have gained is the half hearted promise of return. ”

She doesn’t want to look at her quizzically. She doesn’t want to understand Greengrass, she doesn’t want to connect with somebody on the completely opposite side of the spectrum of character. She definitely does not want to talk anymore about the sex life of one of the strangest girls she ever had the opportunity to have dinner with when she was still hurting, hurting over a boy she has no business thinking about right now, or ever, a boy she would have to see the face of every single day, given that they were still “friends”.

But there is food.

“For that routine to end, you would have to fall in love.”

_Bitch, don’t even utter that word._

It’s surprising when Greengrass laughs. Her laughter rings loud, sudden and clear, making her head tilt and curls fall back, and her hand doesn’t raise automatically to muffle it like most girls’ do. It’s open and threateningly transparent.

Hermione would have found it to be almost beautiful had she not already found it scary.

“I- what’s the joke?”

“The entire thing. Screwing a hot somebody. Waiting for some sort of pleasure. Not finding any. Doing it again with a different somebody. No satisfactory results. Turns out you have been craving for the very thing you have been distancing yourself from.”

“You want to fall in love?” Her spoons clatters on her plate.

“Sometimes.”

“It’s the stupidest thing in the world,” Hermione says, surprising herself. You didn’t even want to be a part of this conversation! Her voice comes out much fiercer than she intended it to, and her hands tremble. “It’s like you simply pick a random person from the seven billion existing, and tell him or her, why don’t we ruin our life together? And so it begins.”

“You seem to know, Granger.”

“I fucking had to.”

She laughs again, but it’s a different laugh this time, not so intense. It is more pretentious.

“The Weasel?”

Hermione grits her teeth.

“Please don’t tell me you were crying over the Weasel back there.”

“Finish eating. It will be soon curfew for us, too.”

She is in fake hysterics, now. It isn’t pretty anymore. She grabs Hermione’s wrist. “Darling, even you can do better than the Weasel.”

Her hand is cold, but she is too exhausted to shake it off, to argue against it. The tears were very willing to come back, but she wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Stop laughing.”

“Try Malfoy.”

“Not my type.”

“Zabini.”

“I would never date a player.”

“Hmm, Ernie Macmillan?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Seamus Finnigan.”

“I don’t like boys who can’t handle their potions.”

“Me.”

She laughs.

“Maybe,” she smiles and Greengrass smiles back. What just happened? “If you can stop your sister attempting to steal copies of my Ancient Runes homework everytime, I would be enthralled to be a part of your family.”

“You never said anything about me being a player too.”

“You would be harder to fall for, hence a safer choice.”

Greengrass’s jaw falls comically, and she puts a hand to her heart as if wounded.

“This is the first time somebody said I was ‘harder to fall for’, Gryffindor princess. And by the way, Daphne is failing at Ancient Runes, you need to pity her or she will get kicked out of the house, the subject is like a family heirloom for us.”

“Pitied.” She takes her last bite, trying to suppress her laughter with the divine taste of having steak with bacon at eleven in the night.

She stands up almost immediately making her chair jerk and nearly fall. “It’s eleven,” she announces.

“Go back to your dorm, then,” Greengrass shrugs. Her plate is empty too, but she makes no attempt to move. They both know the latter doesn’t mean it, and after a two second glare from Hermione, Greengrass stands up, too.

“As accompanying a person who tries to insinuate herself into being a part of my family on the very first dinner date, I am obligated to drop you at your dorm before I head to mine.” She holds Hermione’s arm and steers her out of the kitchens.

They hurry till they reach the Gryffindor wing.

“I can still set you up with Malfoy.” Greengrass laughs, catching her breath.

“I wish I was more interested,” Hermione replies seriously.

“But it’s another get-over-him plan already. Try and stop me.” the slytherin claps her hands with overdone enthusiasm making the other girl laugh.

She grabs Hermione’s hand as if she didn’t do that enough for one day already. It doesn’t really register to her why it feels weird, it’s just that she doesn’t get casually touched, much, other than by Harry, Ron, Ginny or Luna. Then there are people who hug everyone, fiddle with their hair, and hold their hands after every sentence. Maybe this one is another among them. Which is a surprising combination of aloofness and expression. Or maybe it is just sarcastic chirpiness. She prefers to imagine the latter.

“Make the Weasel jealous, princess.”

She looks down at Greengrass’s cold hand and for the second time this night, doesn’t attempt to loosen her grip.

“With your help.”

They are grinning at each other.

 

As they turn around at the sound of a nasty hiss, they come face to face with Mrs Norris and Filch grinning even wider.


End file.
